


the privilege of space

by princegrantaire



Category: Justice Society of America (Comics)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon Relationships, Gen, HUAC, Politics, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: Las Vegas is a lifetime away and Alan, who does not make a habit of smoking but would very much enjoy an urgent cigarette right about now, cannot see his survival as a guaranteed part of these two weeks on the road. “Jay,” he says.(Two years after their demise at the hands of the House Un-American Activities Committee, choice members of the Justice Society of America decide a cross-country road trip is just the thing they need to rekindle old friendships.Alternatively: Jay Garrick's Eternal Suffering & Other Stories.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. out-of-placeness

**Author's Note:**

> okay so! this has been a long time coming and born out of my recent obsession with the jsa & endless conversations with my best friend @slaapkat (love u!) about the gang going on a vegas road trip at some point in the fifties. this is about 1955 and characterisation is meant to be a mix of paul levitz' all star comics, james robinson's golden age (where carter's insanity comes from) and jsa 1999/jsa: classified. it doesn't necessarily require more than basic knowledge of the huac situation. alan is meant to be a closeted gay man but the rest are pretty much business as usual, i'd say.
> 
> chapter two is already written but considering how long it's taken them to get started, i can't promise we'll reach vegas in less than five chapters! regardless, i hope it's fun and funny and true to these characters.
> 
> ENJOY

“It’s here. It’s gotta be here.”

Alan moves a couch cushion out of the way and then another, methodical like he’s dusting for fingerprints. He might as well be.

“Goddammit, I’m telling you it ain’t here,” Ted insists, opening and closing the same drawer he’s been on for the past half hour. If he’s feeling the same itch Alan is, the feverish annoyance skittering up the back of his neck, he’s clearly chosen to handle it with some amount of decorum.

“Do you know how much it costs to--”

“Says the CEO.”

Emboldened, Alan drops to his knees like he’s been pushed and peers under the couch. “Don’t _you_ start,” he says, mild, “you know damn well they’ve blacklisted--”

“What in the world are you guys looking for?”

That’s Jay, having just now chosen to manifest in the midst of this cavalcade. Leaning lightly against the doorway, he’s got all the boyish charm of the freshman Joan had fallen for all those years ago and none of the straining weight the Flash had forced on his shoulders. He’s looking _good_ , two years after the fact. Alan, who can’t or doesn’t care to relate, attempts to shove his arm under the couch and gets for his troubles a handful of what feels an awful lot like some sort of stale, prehistoric sandwich.

“Ted, Ted, Ted,” he says, only potentially stuck and verging on suspiciously sweet, “Theodore, my dearest friend, do you happen to know what the _hell_ am I touching?!”

A flash of green, the faint crackling of a certain ring and Alan’s hand phases through the couch, offending item held tightly.

It is, in fact, a sandwich.

Ted bursts out laughing, loud and belly-deep and hysterical enough to give in to the necessity of wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. “Man, I guess that’s where Hooty put it,” he concludes, as if it explains a single thing in the universe. There’s a moment of accidental silence that follows, an unwilling reminder of times long gone. The sandwich combusts in Alan’s hand and burns to a crisp in the span of a second.

“Well,” Alan decides, picking himself up, “I still wanna find it.”

It’s practice alone, if not familiarity, that’s left Jay quiet. “What are you looking for?” he asks again and here is a slight chance that he’s grown tired already. He’s surely _remembered_. “We should get going soon,” he adds, half afterthought, like he’s been considering simply settling down and reminiscing. They’re not _that_ old just yet, Ted would say.

On that subject, he and Alan exchange a look. They’ve been at it since 10 AM. Five hours. They’ve searched every room in the brownstone, every secret passage, every cabinet and hiding place they could’ve possibly thought of, all aided by a construct skeleton key. Perhaps, it’s time to come clean.

“...Cigarettes,” Ted admits and he moves with the sole intention of elbowing Alan.

“We thought we’d left a pack--”

All youthful excitement gone, Jay seems to have aged approximately a hundred years -- by the estimation of interested parties -- since his arrival. “Oh.” He frowns, which is both rare and foreign when it comes to one Jay Garrick. “Oh, _no_. Absolutely not. I’ll have no smoking whatsoever on this trip, thank you very much. We’re taking Joan’s car, remember?”

For the sake of honesty, Alan does not.

“Ah, jeez. Come on, even doctors recommend it,” Ted points out in what’s most likely his best closing argument.

Jay makes a _Face_ \-- capital F, evidently patented. It’s the sign of a man who’d forgotten his suffering until the very instant he’d been thrown right back into it. “No? They don’t?” he says, downright baffled. He turns to eye the baggage littering the hallway behind.

“I mean, not _Charlie_ ,” Alan allows, though he’s taken good care not to get to know more reputable doctors than Charles McNider, who -- coincidentally -- personally holds Alan in no great regard.

\---

The matter fails to get solved in what Jay might classify as a timely manner. Consequently, Ted and Alan find themselves shepherded to the tiny car waiting out front, the make and model of which Alan can’t rightly determine due to a distinct lack of knowledge and a lifetime spent being driven around by Doiby, now departed to sunnier shores. Namely: space. The very idea continues to wound, Alan’s been left to fend for himself on the subway for a number of years now, lest flying be deemed too on the nose. Back to the immediacy of the present, it’s Joan Garrick’s car that offends him equally.

“I’m thinking we can probably switch every couple of hours? I’ll drive ‘till we leave the state, at least,” Jay says, always the man with the plan, as he drags Alan’s various suitcases and Ted’s backpack along. Neither thinks to help.

“Sure, yeah.” Ted shrugs, easily indifferent, if a touch amused at Jay’s efforts.

He heaves the last of the suitcases into the trunk with some difficulty and takes a moment to breathe. “Jesus, Alan, what have you got in there?” Jay manages. He’s lanky, always has been, and a runner’s body is better suited elsewhere. A chronic politeness has landed him here.

Alan thinks on that.

“The lantern? Couple shirts. The usual,” he offers.

“The _lantern_?” Jay splutters, wide-eyed, “Alan, you brought the lantern? I thought we said-- but the-- I mean--” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if government agents might be lingering unseen in the empty street, circling so-called heroes long past their glory days, “No powers, okay? We barely made it the last time.”

“How am I supposed to charge my ring, huh?”

By the time Ted starts laughing again, Jay looks like he’s talking himself out of an anguished scream.

\---

“So, I hear Carter’s insane now.”

Traffic in New York City is torture on a good day. At rush hour, it’s downright murder. Jay’s gripping the steering wheel with some force, finds it nearly grounding in current circumstances, and it’s only the shock of an exceedingly casual statement that makes him glance back at Ted. For his part, Alan’s looking too. They’ve both settled in the backseat for no apparent reason, though tenure with the JSA often has the side-effect of leaving motives unquestioned.

“Insane how?” Alan ventures.

“Like, he thinks he’s an Egyptian prince,” and when that’s enough to capture the interest of present company, Ted carries on, “I ran into Rex the other day and we caught up for a while, right? Drinks an’ all that. So, he says to me that Carter’s gone cuckoo since the trial, apparently he’s been bugging Rex for some kinda pills to stay awake for ages or somethin’.”

“And he thinks he’s an Egyptian prince,” Jay repeats, just to clarify.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

Alan determines that to be a perfectly logical course of action -- or, he’s otherwise delighted by the novelty of a friend gone off the rails, the distant exhilaration of himself not being the culprit for once. “We should pick him up,” he says. Jay’s hand tightens on the wheel and it’s possible that he only narrowly avoids slamming into a gaggle of innocent bystanders by the crosswalk. He _wouldn’t_ but it’s the murderous urge that counts.

“No, please, he’ll bring his wings and there’s no space--”

\---

The Shiera Hall Museum of Ancient Antiquities -- _isn’t that the same thing twice?_ asks Ted -- has certainly seen better days. Amongst peeling paint and an odd accumulation of feathers on the doorstep, banners announcing a new exhibit go barely noticed. In clear disagreement with the decor, the sign on the door marks the museum as closed.

Jay, who’s been thoroughly outvoted, takes the initiative and rings the doorbell. It produces a sort of screech that appears to echo. Instantly, it occurs to him that he’s never once visited their former chairman here.

Or at all, really.

It seems a grievous oversight now.

Ted and Alan linger by the car in the afternoon sun. It’s a scorching summer but far away from alleys, capes and masks, the two of them look abruptly out of place in shorts and polo shirts, harmlessly informal. They’re big men, likely to stand out anywhere but here, two years after the unthinkable, the possibility of being seen strikes them all at once. If Carter ever deigns to answer the door, it’ll be the first time anything resembling a reunion of the--

“Um,” Jay breathes out.

A couple of panicked glances between friends is what the figure in the doorway provokes. It might be Carter in name alone. Beyond an Egyptian headdress that’s quite clearly the genuine article, he’s wearing a costume-store… skirt and very little else. There’s eyeliner involved, carefully applied around blue eyes.

“Greetings,” Carter says in an especially concerning accent, partially because it isn’t and has never been his. For the moment, confusion reigns. He seems unlikely to step aside and let anyone in. Somewhere behind his imposing silhouette, the strange shapes of stranger artefacts stretch on in the darkened museum and static-y chanting fades in and out. They’ve interrupted something, Alan thinks and doesn’t particularly want to stick around and find out what.

Not until Ted pushes to the front, at least.

“Hiya, pal,” he starts, undeterred by insanity or supernatural intervention, “So, Jay here thinks we all need some, uh, whatchamacallit-- bonding time and we’re goin’ on a little road trip. I thought you’ve been looking kinda lonesome. Wanna come with?”

“When?”

Ted looks back at what he would affectionately call _the gang_. “Right now?”

“Alright,” Carter agrees, deadpan and sounding a great deal more like himself, though traces of the accent remain. “I’ll pack.” He melts back into the shadows of the museum and the door swings closed once more. It’s startlingly easy.

The fact of the matter is that Jay might be vibrating. “Anyone think this isn’t a great idea and Carter maybe needs help? Medical help?”

“Nah,” Alan and Ted decide simultaneously.

They share a smile.

When Carter returns in no time at all, he’s carrying a haphazardly thrown together suitcase, various articles of clothing halfway to spilling out of it, and he’s managed to trade his stroke-inducing getup for a more demure combination of knee-length shorts -- remnants of his archeology days -- and sunglasses. Ted wolf-whistles, just for the fun of it.

More acutely worrying, the road trip’s already running late and gets further delayed at Jay’s insistence that Carter opt for a shirt.

An old argument ensues and despite Alan’s threats to abandon ship, plus various rebuttals that he can’t drive at any rate, Carter undergoes a Hawaiian shirt, shoves his wings in the back and climbs in the passenger seat long before the dust settles. Ted gets in next, lounging while he’s still got the chance.

“Whaddya think, pal? Some kinda green fire tornado’s likely to bring the whole place down, huh?”

“Yeah,” Carter grunts.

“Might wanna step in then.”

Carter glances out the window with something approaching apathy and finds no real cause for alarm in the way Alan’s caught fire and Jay’s started vibrating at higher frequencies. “I swear to god I’ll freakin’ _walk_ all the way back to Gotham!” comes Alan’s voice, muffled, before Jay’s sliding back into the car and slamming the door shut.

“Everyone ready for our next adventure?” he asks through a strained smile.

A minute later, Alan joins them once more. “You don’t have to wear a shirt, if you don’t want to,” he says, patting Carter’s shoulder. He smells faintly of ozone.

\---

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Alan would like to let the record show that the road to hell is, in fact, mostly... _hell_. The itch under his skin has returned in full force and five hours in, the realities of a cross-country road trip are gradually dawning on their small group.

Furthermore, and this being the worst offence, no one had wanted to listen to Irene Miller’s show when they’d momentarily been in range of WXYZ Radio.

Las Vegas is a lifetime away and Alan, who does not make a habit of smoking but would very much enjoy an urgent cigarette right about now, cannot see his survival as a guaranteed part of these two weeks on the road. “Jay,” he says. It’s not some misguided attempt at a last hurrah, he doesn’t think--

“Jay,” he repeats. “Jay, Ted and I have unionised and we demand a break.” He’s neglected to exchange more than two words with Ted since they’ve entered Pennsylvania, it seems as good an excuse as any.

The war hadn’t been unkind to the public perception of Mystery Men. There had been glory and paid appearances and photographs with the president and magazine covers -- the whole shebang, the brief taste of fame Alan doesn’t feel he’d ever wanted but hadn’t rebelled against either. Then, it’d all fallen apart. No wrong move, as far as he can tell, not as much as the very country they’d sworn to protect had merely developed a taste for blood and the world had turned against them. He doesn’t mind the quiet and the lack of sleepless nights but there must be some irony to what Jay’s deemed the perfect means of rekindling old friendships.

If they were ever there.

“We stopped an hour ago,” Jay eventually mumbles.

“I didn’t need to go to the bathroom then.”

Alan glances at the empty Coca-Cola bottle at his feet. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time. Ted’s already put away a couple beers, sheer routine for the likes of him. “Carter?” he asks, just in case it brings more supporters to his sudden cause.

“You will address me as Katar Hol,” Carter says with very little care towards what Alan had asked. Similarly, his accent’s chosen to make a surprise return.

“Isn’t--” Alan glances out the window and back again, perplexed, “isn’t that your name?”

“No, no, he said it different,” Ted intervenes.

To Alan, _Katar Hol_ is rather synonymous with _Carter Hall_ and certainly much harder to wrap his head around. He regrets his earlier indignation. Perhaps Carter had deserved to be exposed to the full range of Jay’s shirt-related protests. At the very least, the need for a medical professional might not have been too far off.

“Yes, it is the name Egypt, my ancestral home, hath bestowed upon me--”

“I thought you were from Long Island?” says Ted, presumably before he can help himself.

Alan watches his chances of a bathroom break vanish into thin air.


	2. to think forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to any & all punxsutawney residents, no groundhogs were harmed in the making of this chapter. the motel is made up because no amount of in-depth research has led to a real life name i was happy with. enjoy!

Two hours later, Ted’s drooling on Alan’s shoulder in-between snores and Jay, now relieved of his duty, has taken to singing along to _The Chordettes_ , off-key and no less enthusiastic because of it.

With nothing but the night and the woods rushing by to occupy the imagination, it’s easy to note the average getaway driver’s got nothing on Carter. It’s like he’s trying to make up for the late start, at the cost of their collective sanity and all known laws. The third time -- not that anyone’s counting -- he nearly swerves off the road, Jay reaches out to turn off the radio.

“I…” He fumbles for the right words. “Carter, I really think taking off your sunglasses might help.”

Carter does dignify that with an answer, contrary to general expectations. “Help with what?”

It’s hard for Alan to swallow down the abrupt, hysterical _giggle_ rising in his throat and he looks down at Ted, still snoozing, and quietly mourns his missing out on the upcoming spectacle. He might’ve not gotten that coveted cigarette but who’s to say this isn’t just as sweet? At the very least, it’s starting to look that way.

“It’s just that you’re going very fast and--”

Brave words from the Flash.

“I need to commune with the groundhog, Jay.”

The trouble with Jay is that he takes things like _logic_ and _common sense_ for granted, even after a decade of dealing with anything from medieval knights to time-travelling fascists and beyond. It’s not a quality Alan’s ever found endearing, though he tries to sympathise presently because he, too, mouths certain unmentionable exclamations at that. Alan does laugh then, amusement bubbling over, and jolts Ted in the process without quite meaning to.

“Wha-what’re you bozos sayin’ about hedgehogs?” Ted says, blinking awake as he sits up a little, frowns out the window. It strikes Alan that he misses the warmth of him already and decides that to be a very dangerous train of thought, better derailed before it’s too late. Luckily, Alan’s something of an expert.

“We’re gonna be communing with groundhogs,” he explains, grinning.

Jay sighs.

\---

After the glittering lights and permanent sirens of New York and Gotham, the little town of Punxsutawney strikes these valiant heroes on a nebulous quest as nothing more than the point of no return. They’ve made it _this_ far, the darkened sign at the entrance seems to say in a brief moment of headlights-induced illumination, that there’s very little use in turning back now.

Carter slows to a crawl, kicks open his door and rolls out of the moving car in one swift movement. The night is punctured by Jay’s scream and the indistinct, near-electric buzz of him zipping into the driver’s seat.

They fail to smash into any trees.

“Holy shit,” Ted says as he cranes his neck to look back at the road and finds Carter’s disappeared into the foliage.

Alan’s laughing so hard he’s got trouble breathing, downright hysterical right up until Jay parks in front of the first all-night diner they stumble on and the look on his face sends him reeling into another fit. It’s not like he can help it, Carter’s escape playing on a loop in his mind like it’s one of the pictures he’s gone to on occasion -- a rare indulgence when it feels like a betrayal to the hallowed ground of radio. Ted, ever the team player, seems equally inconsolable.

For the longest time, during the arduous process of stretching their legs and longing for the occasional burger glimpsed through the diner’s windows, no one says a word. It becomes abundantly clear their night has taken a turn for the mysterious.

“Okay, okay.” Jay might be talking himself down from some flavour of incongruous panic. “Whew. _Okay_. How about I look for Carter and we’ll meet back here? Get me a coffee, please.”

And he’s off, a little more than a blur and almost odd without the familiar red-and-blue. The Flash’s taken to wearing sweater vests and unassuming khakis. The world has changed.

He’s not supposed to, technically. No one is. Alan wears his ring every day, thumbs at it during long meetings at the GBC and forceful testimonials in front of the committee. The lantern stays in his closet and its glow has dulled, though he’d never tell anyone and wonders only privately whether it’s got anything to do with faltering willpower. It still charges the ring just fine. Giving up the heroics had been the easy part, the well-worn habits -- not so much.

They get a booth near the window, preventive measures for any hawks that might come calling, and squint at the menus already on the table. The late night clientele leaves something to be desired but company’s not what they’re here for and the prices are sounding particularly sweet.

“What can I get you, fellas?” the waitress that’s just approached them asks.

She’s young, younger than they’d been when this whole mess had started, and passably pretty in the fluorescent light. Alan fixes Ted with a look that’s meant to say _don’t try anything_ and probably falls short of it, what with the way he insists on peppering _sweetheart_ in-between the orders he’s rattling off. Ted knows him better than he knows himself in matters of food, that’s no issue, and it’s not until he gets to Jay’s coffee that Alan stills his hand. He likes to think he doesn’t mean anything by the touch.

“Have you lost your damn mind?” he says, a harsh whisper.

“What?”

“Don’t get Jay coffee, he’s only gonna--”

Alan makes a vague gesture, deeply confusing to Ted, and the waitress glances at each in turn with polite disinterest. They’re wasting her time.

“Oh.” It dawns on Ted then. “ _Oh_.”

It’s late and despite Jay’s best intentions, there are very few people in the world who would want to deal with him on caffeine.

\---

“Do you think he’s eating ‘em or what?”

Alan puts down the fry he’d been throughtfully chewing on and frowns. “What?”

“The hedgehogs, _blondie_ , keep up,” Ted says and pays no mind to the way Alan’s choking at the nickname, flushed a humiliating shade of red. “Do you think Carter’s eating ‘em?”

“Well, they’re groundhogs.”

Not much beyond the thought of a good night’s sleep has passed through Alan’s mind in the past hour. He considers the picture Carter would make; hunched over, bloodied -- naked, too, in this imaginary endeavour -- and tearing at an animal carcass. He dislikes the idea. “No,” Alan decides, shaking his head, “he said he wanted to commune with them. That’s what he’s doing.”

Ted shrugs, unconvinced, but brightens up as the little bell above the door jingles to announce the arrival of two more figures in dire need of a hot meal. It’s a frantic-looking Jay, no change there, and a smiling Carter, couple twigs in his hair and no worse for wear. Ted waves them down with some excitement.

“Sorry, pal, Alan talked me outta getting you coffee,” he says, pointing to the burgers and milkshakes they’d gone for.

Jay’s sounding out of breath, which is all kinds of concerning, as he thanks Ted but then he’s squeezing in next to Alan and Alan takes the opportunity to forget all about it when faced with the indignity of having to scoot over. More pressing matters, clearly. They eat in something like amiable silence, content not to mention Carter’s melting eyeliner or the distinct lack of any groundhogs.

Or, to satisfy Ted’s curiosity, any hedgehogs.

\---

The Nova Motel is a quaint affair on the edge of town that they reach late enough to be called early and find halfway deserted. With plenty of room to stretch out, Carter occupies two parking spaces, declares that he’s run out of whatever dosage of _Miraclo_ Rex Tyler had been willing to part with and yawns.

In a manner of speaking, they’re all tired -- of the road, of the too-long day, maybe even of present company.

There’s relief in stopping for the night.

“Nova. As in supernova, I’m sure,” Carter says while Jay’s talking rooms with the receptionist, “I’m from outer space, as you might know.”

“No, no, no, hold _on_ , you said you’re from Egypt!” Alan, who’s barely managed to wrap his head around the idea in the first place, finds that he’s committed a grave mistake in leaning against the skeevy armchair Carter’s taken over.

“I am many things, Alan Scott.”

That settles it.

If the motel had ever been in its prime, this certainly isn’t it. Jay pays in cash, looks somewhat mournful about the handful of bills he’s handed back as change and ushers the gang to their rooms. More or less. “So, I could only get us two rooms but I’m guessing we’re fine with sharing? I’ll go with Carter.” He’s not putting it particularly delicately and there’s very little to be counted as apologetic in his tone. Jay’s in for a long night, is the fact of the matter.

“Share?” Alan starts and takes it from there, “You want me to _share_? With Ted?” Unflinchingly determined to prove the importance of this sudden crusade, he unleashes about a decade’s worth of petty -- or, otherwise, bizarre and specific -- complaints addressed to hotels, motels and, what’s clearly meant to wound, Jay’s inability to iron his shirt collars in a way Alan’s deemed acceptable. It’s a scathing remark, delivered blithely in the middle of this carpeted hallway in the late hour.

“Girls, girls, ya can fight more tomorrow, c’mon, I wanna get snoozing,” Ted eventually steps in, pushing Alan towards their room with little to no argument.

\---

Two beds with a nightstand between them. An enchanting view of the parking lot and the bang-up job Carter had done. It could be worse, Alan thinks, but doesn’t exactly see how.

In the five minutes it takes him to drag in some necessary luggage and bid Jay a sincere goodnight, Ted’s stripped down to his boxers, clambered on the bed closest to the door and resolutely fallen asleep on the covers. He’s snoring, a sort of whistling sound through the nose, and Alan feels a shock of guilt for the way his eyes linger on that vast expanse of bare skin. It’s not a pretty sight; Ted fights for a living both in and out of costume, there’s bound to be scars. A bruise claws its way down from his shoulder. Alan turns away and it’s now the fear hits in full force. It’s not _right_.

He turns off the lights, changes into his silk pyjamas and goes to brush his teeth.

That’s the first day over with.


	3. apart from the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the very few people reading this: thank you so much! i'd love hearing some thoughts & opinions and i can also guarantee that the murderous urges of our protagonists are fully canon and am willing to provide evidence

They’re breezing past Cleveland and turning towards Chicago when Jay permits the first break since lunch. It’s all late mornings and late nights. Out here, near the cusp of nowhere, the gas station attached to the kind of mom-and-pop store New York’s long abandoned appears as something of an oasis. Alan practically sprints out of the car.

“I thought the whole point of a road trip was, y’know, the road,” Ted says, just now stepping out. “You in a hurry, Speedo?”

“I told Joan we’d be back in two weeks,” admits Jay, sheepish like he gets whenever anything as heartfelt as a promise comes up. The subject of Joan is often off-limits, especially if he’s likely to never hear the end of it.

“Jeez, pal, it ain’t gonna take us two weeks to get to Vegas.”

“It _could_!”

At the pace they’re going, it’s not entirely out of the question. Alan considers that and accepts the distant comfort of Mystery Men having been spared active combat when it might’ve meant years in close quarters with men pining after the sweethearts they’d left back home, even worse than Jay does when he’s shakily handed any opportunity to talk about Joan. Glad to have escaped his own ball-and-chain, though he’s got Jay himself already, Alan walks into the store, digs a couple bucks out of his shorts and gets the cheapest pack of cigarettes the cashier offers.

It’s not his usual brand. These days, he’s not so sure he _has_ one. It is, however, high time he’s borrowed Ted.

“How long do you think we’ve got ‘till Jay kills us?” Alan asks as he and Ted circle the gas station once or twice in search of a decent place to smoke. In the end, they settle just around the corner from where Carter’s busy filling up the tank.

“Hm. Ten minutes? They’re fighting about who’s gonna drive next.”

A short glance reveals precisely that.

“Better hurry then,” Alan says, handing Ted the pack to open and patting himself down for a lighter. Tragedy strikes. “Goddammit, I don’t have anything to--”

“Alan.”

Ted’s looking at him meaningfully, like he’s meant to know what he’s getting at. Alan does not. “ _Alan_ ,” he repeats, balancing a cigarette in his mouth. He saves one and shoves the pack in his pocket, no doubt likely to be irreparably squished the minute they’re back in the car. “C’mon, big guy, do your fire thing.”

“My fire-- _Oh_.” Alan, enlightened by the sudden revelation of his own powers, lights both cigarettes with his finger. Plenty of willpower left for that.

Clapping in utter delight, Ted takes a few quick puffs, lets the moment linger in the air and says, “See, that’s the kinda move I wish I could do. The whole fire mumbo jumbo? Bet the broads go wild for it. Real classy, if you ask me.”

Good thing no one’s asking him.

Alan forces a laugh, grateful for the cigarette and the way it serves to ground him. “Wish I could teach you,” he agrees, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

It’s almost strange, just _being_ here with Ted. It’s not the sunlight or the open road that does it. No, it’s the understanding that he’s never done this before with any member of the JSA outside of quick lunches and hours in the brownstone in shades of aimlessness. It’s almost like having Doiby back and that’s all kinds of crossed wires. Alan lights up another cigarette, already faintly disfigured by Ted’s pocket.

\---

“I don’t know, Carter, I feel like we’re missing something,” Jay says, glancing over to the passenger seat where Carter’s trying -- and failing -- to put his feet up on the dashboard. “Please, don’t do that.”

“Eh, it’s probably just one of those things.” Carter shrugs. His shirt’s even buttoned this time. “Can’t have been too important, right?”

If _Miraclo_ had produced yesterday’s insanity, and it was certainly known to cause the occasional bout of mania in Rex, then it’s receded in leaps and bounds. Carter almost sounds like the man he’d been before Shiera and that last mission with the Squadron, before talks of reincarnations and rituals. Jay likes it, maybe more than he should when he knows it can’t last. Still, old friends are always appreciated.

“I guess you’re right,” he admits. “Guys, what do you think?”

When no answer comes, Jay makes the effort of turning around and coming face to face with the empty backseat. A stray bag of chips greets him. The car comes to a screeching halt. “Um, Carter.”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Ted and Alan?”

“Fuck.”

\---

Alan might be on fire. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue but there’s the matter of broad daylight and the way the _green_ flames have begun spreading towards the store. Ted’s helpfully cut off the cigarette supply. It hasn’t changed much.

“How _could_ they just-- abandon us!” Another burst of heat from Alan. “They’ve got my lantern! What if this was just some, I don’t know, elaborate heist to steal _my_ lantern?!”

“Look, Al, somehow I really doubt that,” Ted offers and wonders whether it’d be worth trying to reach out a comforting hand. There’s always the possibility the fire will engulf his arm and that’s a step above scarred knuckles that he doesn’t quite wanna take. Instead, he watches the road carefully and settles on the most painful of plans -- that is to say: sitting around and waiting to be rescued. That’s never been his style but there’s a lot to be said about beggars and choosers and, most recently, soon-to-be burning buildings.

The cavalry does come eventually.

Jay’s driving like he’s got the Speed Force on his side. He stops an inch from where the fire’s just been inelegantly extinguished by his arrival and hops out to embrace Ted tightly. “Whoa! Easy there, bud,” he says and presents Carter, still in the car, with a quick wave. Their resident speedster’s got a tendency to get touchy-feely around catastrophe, averted or otherwise.

“I am _so_ sorry, I completely forgot to tell you we were leaving and I just--”

It’s then Alan cuts off Jay’s apologies with the simple act of stalking off to the car, muttering something or other about stolen lanterns and treacherous friendships.

\---

“Okay, what the _hell_ is that smell?” Carter asks for the third time since they’ve left the gas station. Jay’s still driving, though Ted has agreed to finally take responsibility some time after Chicago -- as good a cutoff point as any, if the general idea of turning on Route 66 still stands by then.

“Thought Egyptian princes didn’t swear,” Ted remarks with a grin that’s not remotely dampened by Carter turning to glare at him.

“They do when Alan stinks like he’s been bathing in campfires and cigarettes.”

“Hey!”

Alan does, regardless, take the opportunity to smell his own shirt -- another pastel polo from the veritable collection housed in his suitcases -- and finds it downright pleasant, the smell of detergent holding steady underneath his favourite cologne. That and last night’s shower is more than anyone else in the car can attest to. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hall,” he decides, crossing his arms. It’s the truth, too; blind to any ring residue and long used to the smoke.

It still doesn’t cut it with Carter, who takes a moment to think before he’s back to dejected glances out the window. “All in favour of taking Alan’s ring say _aye_ ,” is what he eventually settles on.

“Aye,” Jay says, no hesitation.

“Jay, I will physically set this car on fire.” Alan’s glowing green, shimmering in the semi-darkness of the day coming to a close. He needs to charge up soon, sure, but blowing up a car takes little effort. That’s experience talking.

Ted, at last, steps in. “Fellas, how about no one’s settin’ anything on fire and we all get a drink when we hit Chicago? Mama Grant’s little boy isn’t used to this kinda dehydration. An’ I mean, it’s the last big city we’re getting for a while. We gotta celebrate, do something special to, y’know, mark the occasion.”

“You wanna get drinks?” Alan clarifies. “With us? In Chicago?”

“I don’t really--”

“Shut up, Jay. We’re in,” says Carter, sounding like it’s a done deal, “Blondie can even keep his ring.”

\---

The thing about Ted’s choice of venue, internationally-speaking, is that he’s got a prevailing sense of direction towards the seedy underbelly of any place he’s ever found himself in. It’s not like Alan’s partial to the _Ritz_ but the few places he frequents, albeit rarely, are willing to provide more than tap beer and a jukebox drowned out by arguments leading to punches. At the very least, he’d like the illusion of choice in all this.

Instead, they get in late and Chicago’s already lit up in the dark and Ted insists on driving them over to a place that can’t be anything more than a backroom affair left over from the prohibition.

“How do you even _know_ this place?” Jay asks, resigned to the backseat with Alan now that Ted’s taken over.

“Fought in a lot of places, pal. Sometimes I even stuck around to see the sights.”

It’s easy to guess what the sights might’ve entailed and harder to hope there’s none of that tonight when they all know who they’re dealing with.

Alan regrets the pastels the minute they walk in. He knows what they must look like, he’s just counting on no one seeing it. Against reason, Ted has his arms thrown around Jay and Alan’s shoulders like he hasn’t got a care in the world, like he’s the kind of person that’s never once stopped and considered where he stands. It’s only recently Alan’s learned not all men are conscious of their every gesture, stray glances and mannerisms that stand between oneself and a lifetime in an institution. That’s always an unwelcome wake-up call. Behind the trio, Carter looms with the enthusiasm of the recently departed. Not quite his speed, then.

The usual clientele doesn’t agree with them either, as cold of a comfort as that is. Alan’s grateful for the wide berth they’re given but Ted’s the one leading the way to the bar and he clearly doesn’t like the way the bartender’s eyeing them. If he’s learned anything in his years with the JSA, it’s to recognise when one of them is itching for a fight.

Bad news, in the current locale.

“We don’t serve your kind here,” the bartender says, firm. Somewhere along the way, Jay’s weaseled his way from under Ted’s arm and shoots Alan a concerned look.

In a manner of speaking, it’s the very same worry stretching in wildly different directions. There’s very little chance Jay has caught on to what Alan has or, just as acute, whether that’s even the issue. It could be worse. They could both be right.

“And what if I wanna get a drink for my buddies here, huh?” Coming from Ted, it’s a challenge.

“And _I’m_ saying it ain’t that kinda bar,” the bartender insists. He’s big but they’ve taken down Ultra-Humanite in every incarnation, there’s no doubt where things are headed if they escalate. Oddly enough, it’s not a very reassuring thought. “So, why don’tcha take your _fairies_ and get outta here?” he adds, punctuated by an especially discontent glance to where Ted’s still got his arm around Alan and Jay’s lingering nearby.

It’s not often Alan wants to cry as much as he wants to laugh. He flinches back like he’s been slapped and prays that no one’s noticed and yet-- hysterical amusement bubbles up. _Fairy_. It’s nearly nothing. He’s heard it before, never to his face. That’s where the heart-stopping novelty turns surreal and he can’t quite believe his eyes when Ted _leaps_ over the bar, all Wildcat and not much of Ted Grant. He lands a punch right on target, Alan flinches again at the crunch of a broken nose.

“Uh-oh,” Jay says as he watches the carnage unfold.

Right on cue, Carter downs the nearest beer and joins in the fun with its owner and half a dozen others. It’s not looking good. The threat of discovery -- Mystery Men mixing amongst civilians, inciting near-riots -- is the threat of HUAC. They’d evaded it once, Alan refuses to let sheer stupidity walk them straight into the lion’s den. Simultaneously, he’s surprised to find himself fire-free and understands that if worse comes to worst, he’s wasted his energy on a temper tantrum and little else. For once, he’s inclined to agree with Jay.

It’s only once someone starts shouting about the cops, upcoming or otherwise, and Ted’s managed to pummel the bartender into the ground that they get moving. Jay, who harbours a tendency to get lost in rushing crowds, gets dragged along by Carter as they pile into the car.

“Drive! Drive!” Ted’s yelling when it becomes exuberantly clear they’ve gone wrong at some point or another.

Alan’s in the driver’s seat, staring uncomprehending at the key in the ignition.

“I-- I don’t know how to drive,” he admits. A kind of collective groan greets him.

In a last ditch effort to outrun the approaching sirens, Jay taps into just enough of his power to execute _the ol’ switcheroo_ , as Ted calls it, and make it back on the road in record time.


	4. essence of the desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY JSA DAY & WEEK EVERYONE!!!!!! WE'VE OFFICIALLY GOT OUR BOYS BACK IN MAIN CONTINUITY WITH HAWKMAN #27. GO READ IF YOU HAVEN'T, WE'VE WON ONCE MORE.
> 
> AND SO. we come to the end and while i ended up taking a shortcut here, i hope it's still been a pretty enjoyable ride cause i've given it my all and this is quite honestly the longest thing i've ever written. i think i'm even proud of it? maybe? any comments whatsoever would be extremely appreciated, of course. as always, i can't thank my best buddy @slaapkat enough for all the support in the world!!! THIS IS ALL FOR U AND U KNOW I LOVE YA OL PAL
> 
> ENJOY.

Driving through the night is unpleasantly derivative. Last time, at the very least, the thought of the nearest motel had been an effective light at the end of the tunnel. Now, swerving on Route 66, Jay seems set on not stopping until sunrise. There’s no sign that they’ve been tailed. Hell, they’d abandoned the sirens before they’d even gotten close. It’s seemingly not enough.

Carter, the lucky bastard, has made a pillow out of his discarded shirt and is happily snoring away. As a matter of fact, so’s Ted. Alan, on the other hand, despairs.

“We should stop soon, Jay,” he says, as gently as he’s capable of -- which isn’t, in all honesty, _very_.

“We’ll stop in the next town.”

To Alan, it sounds like a death sentence. It’s been hours. On bad days, he tolerates Jay. On good days, he might even like him. Today ranks somewhere above _bad_. “And when’s that? You said the same thing ages ago.” He cards a hand through his hair, tired and malcontent with the grip of anxiety tightening around his heart now that he’s become aware of just how urgent the need to charge his ring is.

“I don’t _know_ , Alan.” Jay sighs and there’s that familiar weight of the world on his shoulders. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a freakin’ map of the midwest memorised!” Another sigh. “Look, I’m sorry, I just want us to be safe, okay?”

The hero shtick might work on Joan but Alan doesn’t falter so easily. “We _are_ safe,” he insists, “I’m not the one getting paranoid for no goddamn reason.”

Miraculously, no one stirs.

“I’m not paranoid for no reason! How can you just _say_ that? You really think I’m willing to risk everything just because Ted wanted to prove he’s still got it or you’re gunning for an argument? I know you don’t care about the committee but I do, Joan and I are gonna have a family one day and I don’t wanna be mixed up in all that.” It spills out of Jay with the delicate, tightrope balance of a barely reined in breakdown. Alan’s spent years riling him up in every way he knows how and even _he_ gets a sense of something other than exhaustion looming underneath the murky waters of friendship. One day, he might even learn to back down.

Alan, however, remains mostly true to himself today.

“Oh, right, sure. _I_ don’t care, like I’m not the only one of us who could actually--”

Tendrils of dread grow colder by degrees as Alan swallows his words. It’s the same dizzying trepidation like in the bar, a truth too big to comprehend lurking too close at hand. He regrets it, all at once.

“The only one who could _what_?” Jay prompts.

Luckily, that is if luck’s got anything to do with it, Alan harbours any number of shameful secrets to fall back on. “More than half my writers are blacklisted, I’m working with-- with a skeleton crew at best and… I’ve gotten a couple offers to sell,” he admits and loathes what feels like a fast approaching headache, “I’m the only one of us who’s actually been affected by this, Jay. No heroics. No Mystery Men. Just me, losing everything as usual.”

“You want to sell GBC?”

“No, I don’t _want_ to do anything.” If Jay has managed to catch up to himself, Alan’s still working on it. “Forget it.”

Out of the blue, Jay reaches out the best he can whilst keeping his eyes on the road. “Give me your hand, Alan.” For the longest time, it’s incomprehensible. Partially, and Alan’s sure he’s not mistaken there, because they’re smack dab in the middle of an argument.

“Okay…?”

He does, eventually, do as requested and his frown only deepens once Jay squeezes his hand. They’ve entered uncharted waters. “You know you can always count on me and Joanie, right? Sure, we’re all stressed about this but if you need anything, even a place to stay, you know our door’s always open,” Jay says, terrifyingly heartfelt. He’s a good man and Alan can’t help wondering whether that would hold up in the face of much more severe revelations.

Alan pulls back his hand, a lot more forceful than intended and uncomfortable with the contact. Anxiety-- no, _panic_ digs deeper. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

\---

The motel, when it does appear, is a horrifically abandoned-looking little building on the edge of the highway, succinctly accompanied by a neon sign blinking on and off -- undecided on its lack of vacancy. It’s worth a try now, just past a town whose name Alan hadn’t caught in the dark. The first shards of morning only just intervene. He and Jay have kept silent the rest of the way, supposedly for the sake of their sleeping companions. Consequently, the thrumming under Alan’s skin is yet to stop. A hint of arson would go a long way.

He kicks the back of Carter’s seat instead, watches him splutter through a rude awakening and declares _We’re here!_ in the interest of also waking Ted up. Two birds, one stone.

“Where the hell is _here_?” Ted asks, squinting at his desolate surroundings.

At least, and that’s the good news, no one seems to have caught a glimmer of misaimed vulnerability. Alan breathes easy, just this once. Jay’s whole _kumbaya_ spiel had been, quite frankly, enough to last a lifetime.

“Don’t know! Mr. Garrick’s calling the shots here,” Alan says, more animated than expected.

Jay rubs the back of his neck as he steps out, stiff from a night of driving and an impeccable posture induced by sheer paranoia. “Look, we can just-- sleep a couple hours here and then figure out which way we’re going. How’s that sound?” he asks and then, with all the courage of his convictions, adds, “and if any of you stop me from getting coffee this time, someone’s gonna pay.”

Not all calm, then. Alan allows a private smile.

Attached to the motel, as it turns out, is a truck stop and a greasy spoon diner, both of which delight and enchant more than half the group. Nevertheless, Alan graciously bows out at Ted’s offer of some food and company, courtesy of a restless night and the simple fact that a room all to himself sounds not unlike heaven. It seems very nearly crucial to charge his ring, too.

\---

It’s the giggling that startles Alan, breathing harshly through the remnants of a forgotten dream. After he’d hauled up his luggage and pulled a quick _And I shall shed my light over dark evil_ , he’d proceeded to strip down to his undershirt and quite purposely crawl into bed. There shouldn’t be, by all accounts, any girlish giggles to upset the one hour of sleep he’s thoroughly earned.

“Shh, c’mon, I’m pretty sure my buddy here don’t wanna join in the fun.”

That’s Ted, overflowing with amusement, and that’s also -- coincidentally -- the last straw. Alan opens his eyes. The sight that greets him is a resolutely appalling one. Ted is putting up an admirable fight as he struggles with the key still stuck in the door, a malady that had already befallen Alan when he’d come in, and a bottle-blonde in an absurd skirt clinging to his arm. He glances at the railway lantern, a brilliant green even after all these years, on the nightstand and wonders whether throwing it at Ted’s paramour counts as an unauthorised use of his powers.

If nothing else, the mystery deepens. Ted reeks of what can only be Alan’s remarkably cheap cigarettes. That has him sitting up, startling this morning’s entertainment in the process.

“What do _you_ think you’re doing?” Alan asks. On a second thought, he dedicates various efforts to fishing for his discarded shirt before anyone gets any ideas. Back to the safety of his pastel polo, he fixes the girl with an icy glare and it’s only a legendary willpower that keeps any flames from spreading. Privacy is one thing Alan values greatly.

And certainly one thing he’d appreciate in this trying time.

“Relax, big guy, I thought you were still snoozing,” Ted starts, having finally accomplished the miracle of locking the door, “and this here is-- um. She’s a real dynamite gal, I’ll tell ya that much.”

As a matter of fact, Alan has no need to be told that much. If given the chance, he’d advise against it. He sits on the edge of the bed and slips on his shoes and regrets the momentary glance to where Ted’s started getting in the mood. It’s a tragic thought. “Not that!” Alan intervenes, though he’s getting the distinct impression it’s already too late. “I mean, were you smoking my cigarettes? That I paid for?”

“Thought you borrowed Jay’s wallet?”

“I don’t see how that’s related.” Ultimately, that’s all Alan’s got to say on the subject. It’s 7 AM on a day he’s already lost track of and if he can’t sleep in, the rest of the world might as well suffer for it. He picks up his lantern, tenderly cradled close like Ted’s doing to the girl, and walks through the wall. It’s never felt like much of anything, this vague sensation of wading through molasses until he’d find himself on the other side. The light had blinded him the first time, he knows to shield his eyes now. It’s not until he hears the so-called _dynamite gal_ scream that Alan realises what he’s done. He can’t feign interest.

Jay, too, screams when Alan passes through _his_ wall. This room, a mirror image of Alan’s own, fails to reveal anything of note other than a better view of the great big nothing stretching beyond the motel. Road trips aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

“Don’t look at me, Ted’s got company,” he says, in lieu of any real explanation.

As Alan lays on Carter’s bed, going by the massive wings haphazardly folded one over the other at its foot, Jay pulls a Face. One of those patented ones.

“It’s barely morning, I can’t believe Ted is seriously feeling up to--”

“Why’s Carter got his wings out?” Alan’s not big on small talk. There’s a tint of genuine curiosity here, underneath an unfazed desire to sleep. Another glance at the wings fails to elucidate any mysteries.

“He said he wants to fly up and, um, find the way,” Jay explains, nearly flushed with embarrassment at the acknowledgement of having participated in Carter’s delusions.

“What, like-- a bird?”

“Not like a _bird_. He said it’s what he did at home? In ancient Egypt?” Jay rubs a hand across his face and Alan wonders whether he’s really missed the intricacies of herding choice members of the Justice Society of America or he’s already gotten a taste of his own medicine. It’s hard to tell. Times like these are what Wes’ sleeping-gas-gun is made for, he’s sure.

“Right. Well, I’ll take a look at the brochures in the lobby later. I’m sure we’re either in Missouri or about to enter it,” Alan offers, restraining most of the distaste he’s got for the notion, “Anyway, I’m going to sleep now.” He sets his lantern down near Carter’s wings, throws an arm over his face to block the daylight -- plus, should the need arise, any Jay-isms -- and hopes for the best.

\---

By late afternoon, no one’s made it downstairs. Alan wakes up twice to the rising crescendo of Ted’s extracurriculars, once more to a hushed argument between Jay and Carter that involves vague, urgent gestures towards the wings at the foot of the bed and, to his great dismay, a final time when the bed dips beneath a certain someone’s weight. Alan curls up tight around the pillow he’s forgone for his head in favour of hugging it and only lightly singes the sheets when no relief comes. At last, he looks up at his assailant.

“Brought you a hot dog, big guy,” Ted says, sitting cross-legged on the bed. There is, in fact, a hot dog on the nightstand. Confusingly, it also includes the plate from the diner.

“Was the girl a waitress?” is all Alan can manage, sleep-rough and disoriented.

Ted winks.

When all that provokes is a groan from Alan, he sits him up and hands him the hot dog, seemingly in an inexplicable hurry. “Jay wants to get goin’ soon,” Ted explains, “I don’t think we’re wasting time but you know how he gets, can’t risk getting home late to Joanie. I talked him into giving ya a couple minutes.”

It’s very likely less a gesture of goodwill and more of a hard-earned knowledge of how _Alan_ gets, too.

\---

The lobby, if it can be generously called that when it’s all stained carpets and a reception desk presumably barely presentable even back in its heyday, houses a thoroughly impressive collection of pamphlets, maps and all manner of memorabilia from places that can only be classified as _anywhere but here_. Currently, it also accommodates Carter -- wings strapped over his Hawaiian shirt -- and Jay.

By the time Ted and Alan make it downstairs, luggage in tow, the fight’s in full swing. As much as it can be when Jay’s involved, at any rate. It’s not the journey, Alan finds out, but rather the proposed pit stops that have the more respectable half of the group at each other’s throats.

“Carter, you’ve been to the Grand Canyon before! We’ve all been!” Jay’s gesturing as he talks, fast and maybe tapping into his speed without quite realising it. “Why would we spend two entire days there? There’s nothing to do!”

“What if I wanna look for fossils, huh?” Carter challenges, crossing his arms. It’s not especially intimidating, his chest straps digging into his shirt and pulling at it awkwardly. Par for the course, the shirt’s barely staying buttoned as it is. “And don’t say they’ve all already been found because I know what I’m about, Garrick.”

“Guys, what do you think?” Jay asks.

With the full force of Jay and Carter’s attention on him, Alan feels the unfamiliar urge to slink behind Ted. He resists it.

“Look, my pa took me there buncha times back in the day,” Ted offers, easy, “there’s nothin’ much to do, like Jay’s saying. View’s nice enough, I guess, if you’re into the whole desert business. Me? I prefer what’s waitin’ for us in Vegas, if you know what I mean.”

They all do, regrettably.

Alan shrugs. “Me and Doiby used to drive around a lot,” he concludes. If it’s not saying much, it certainly isn’t meant to.

Just like that, the disagreement fails to blow over. It only takes Carter a couple minutes to resume a would-be screaming match. Jay hints at _Miraclo_ , even after a self-confessed lack of it, and it doesn’t go over well. From there, it escalates without much trouble. Alan watches and considers the consequences of his actions -- rare, even in the field -- as he glances at his ring, then at his companions and back again in turns. He doubts there’s too much of a chance HUAC is listening in on a little motel in the middle of nowhere, ready to catch former Mystery Men in the act. Satisfied with what he’s determined, and unconcerned with the receptionist, Alan takes matters into his own hands.

All it takes is a puff of smoke, reeking of ozone and clinging to the back of one’s throat. Then, a blinding flash of green light. Fire, really, at a closer glance. Alan has only pulled this trick once before.

It’s only a second until they’re assaulted by the sights and sounds of Las Vegas. Jay’s down on his knees, coughing his lungs out in front of the Sands Hotel and Casino.

“Alan!” he gasps out.

The smoke clears, Jay’s indignation stays behind.

“I didn’t _aim_ it at you!” It’s a shaky defence, Alan knows, but it’s the truth, too. Perplexingly, no one stops and stares. If the light show isn’t out of place in Vegas, then there’s a good chance the motel they’ve left behind might spark a thorough investigation. Ted and Carter have already wandered off inside and Alan can’t imagine Carter’s wings to look especially out of place either. He puts a hand on Jay’s shoulder, somewhere in the vicinity of sweaty from the heat of the ring. It’s taken a lot more than he’d thought.

And maybe his willpower _has_ faltered since the days of the hearing.

They’re here to have fun.

“C’mon, let’s catch up to the fellas before they get in any trouble,” Alan says, as if trouble’s ever started without him.

Jay, life-long ruiner of plans, does stop in his tracks halfway up the staircase though. “Ohmigod, the _car_.” He turns to clutch at Alan, eyes gone worryingly wide. Up close, they’re remarkably hazel. “We-- the-- the car’s still back at the motel! Joan’s gonna kill me. As in, really actually kill me. We saved up for ages-- I--”

“So? We’ll go back for it tomorrow.” Alan smiles, maybe he even means it. For now, he lets the threat of the committee and all that implies fade into the background noise of their destination. “C’mon, I’m pretty sure Ted’s got your wallet this time.”

“This time?!”

**Author's Note:**

> find me @ufonaut on tumblr. talk to me!


End file.
